Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended.

Several months after move-in…

Clint watched the soldiers take aim at the row of targets down range. Several files sat on the rough, wooden counter at the edge of the observation tower's platform while the Master Sergeant standing next to him provided a rundown of the various soldiers in the unit. He listened quietly as the NCO rattled off each soldier's skills and an estimate of their abilities.

He thought back to the last few rounds of exercises and maneuvers the squad had gone through, scrutinizing every move, action, and reaction.

First, there had been a formation run. The squad had suited up in full gear, including equipment packs, canteens or camel-backs and rifles. Some outfits might consider the weight light, but the Army liaison hadn't wanted to overtax them after their recent training exercises. It was an experienced unit, recently returned from the Middle East, so they wouldn't have to train as much with unit tactics and weaponry if they were recruited to SHIELD. Their sergeant had called cadence, and few if any soldiers had lagged behind. Clint watched as one soldier lingered towards the rear, but didn't appear to be falling behind due to exhaustion.

The run brought them to an obstacle course, with incline walls, a wire covered "belly-robber," and other assorted constructs designed to test the soldiers in both single and team challenges. The same young man who had caught his attention kept up easily, but seemed hesitant to join up with the rest of the unit unless it was required. His squad mates were equally hesitant; while most of them ignored him outright, there were a pair that seemed to linger nearby, helping him through the course when needed. Even they seemed to treat it more like a chore, rather than camaraderie.

Clint watched carefully as the Specialist was paired up with one of the two who had helped him through the course as they moved into hand- to-hand combat practice. Some of the other squad members gave the outcast – he couldn't be anything else – looks of disappointment. Their moves were mechanical and rehearsed, as if trying to make sure neither was overdoing it.

It was when they reached the rifle range that Clint felt he had identified the situation. The young Specialist seemed to be trying to keep his performance low to average, as if trying not to attract any attention to himself. His current scores most likely didn't match his earlier recorded scores in his service record; Clint squinted, making out his name and frowned. The young man's record wasn't in his stack of hopefuls.

It wasn't their performance during the run and the other activities that he was interested in so much as their behavior during and after the exercises. SHIELD wasn't as much an army as it was a mentality. Any trained person could pick up a gun and shoot at a target, but he was looking for something else – loyalty, and a willingness to work together.

SHIELD had its share of spies and field agents. What Fury had asked him for, however, was to improve their ranks of foot soldiers. With the increase in activity from various illegal bio-weapon research groups, alien invasions, and other nefarious sources, they needed to step up their game when it came to their troops. They needed more Operations troops with the right mentality to handle the upcoming trouble that was bound to head SHIELD's way.

Fury wasn't just looking at replenishing their ranks; in a way, the Director was preparing for war. With a decent-sized portion of the Ops force was either military, mercenary or from an intelligence organization of some kind. The mix of mentalities tended to clash, and the last thing SHIELD needed was a ground force at war with itself.

He wrote the names of the Specialist and the two who had helped during the obstacle course and sparring as he spoke to his liaison, Master Sergeant Hughes. "What's with the three at the back?"

Hughes held up a pair of binoculars, surprised at the sudden speech; Clint had hardly said a word all afternoon. "Ah. Princese, Shaw, and Willis."

"What's their story?"

The NCO gave him an uncomfortable look, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Princese is sort of a…special case. He's getting ready to muster out in about four months. I think he's just trying to keep his head down for now. The other two, well, they've got a better sense of the phrase 'No man left behind' than the rest of the squad, unfortunately. They don't necessarily like Princese, but they're a bit more willing to look past that to help out a fellow soldier."

"What'd he do?" Clint asked as he watched Princese frown, glance to the side, and then miss. The archer's eyes narrowed. It was well hidden, but it was a deliberate miss. In a twisted sort of fashion in Clint's eyes, it took talent to screw up on purpose and keep his leadership from noticing.

"Got separated from his squad while he was on deployment after they stumbled on some arms dealer hiding in the hills. He and his spotter went on the run, and Barber took a hit to the gut that slowed 'em down. They got turned around during the firefight, and got lost in the desert. The wound turned septic, and they had no way to get help," the Master Sergeant recounted, his tone full of pity. "Barber recorded a message to his loved ones and begged Princese for a mercy kill. He was sent back to his unit after he stumbled back to base. CID cleared him, in case you're wondering, but the kid's still not over it."

Clint winced. "I take it the rest of the squad wasn't happy about that?"

"Hell no. Barber was a social butterfly – he was friends with pretty much everyone he met. They didn't take his death well at all. Princese's social skills are pretty much shit, which doesn't help. Kid's got a major chip on his shoulder, and Barber was really the only friend he had."

"Has he been seeing a counselor?"

"Regularly. He'll be in and out of the VA for quite some time, I figure," the NCO sighed, looking over at Clint. "Damn shame, too – once you get past the prickly exterior, he's not a bad kid."

The SHIELD agent nodded. "I'd like his file."

"You sure, sir?" The liaison gave him a strange look. "I don't think –"

"Master Sergeant, I asked for your best soldiers," Clint replied curtly. He tapped the stack. "What I've got here are a bunch of Rambo wanna-bes and a few who have what I'm actually looking for. And I told you I needed a marksman – why wasn't Princese's file included?"

"He has been a bit off on his shooting, sir. We've chocked it up to nerves, or being a bit distracted after what happened."

"Bullshit."

Hughes scoffed. "He's missing half his shots –"

"Look again." Clint nodded back towards the target area. "Check the grouping on his hits."

The NCO looked through the binoculars for several minutes, watching the soldier closely. The man scowled, lowering the device before giving Clint a bewildered look. "Fuck me. He's throwing the exercise. How the hell did you see that without a scope or a set of binoculars?"

There was something about the quiet anger that seemed to radiate from Specialist Princese; the hunched shoulders, the constant dropping of his gaze to the ground, and the looks of longing as he hung back from his peers. Clint had seen it all before, many years ago, when he had looked in the mirror. He had never been able to relate or communicate well with his peers when he had first joined the army due to his strange upbringing. The isolation had almost driven him to madness, and he would most likely have snapped at some point if he hadn't met Flynn.

Sometimes, all it took was one person to take the time try to understand. From the look of things, Princese didn't have that here. Besides, if his suspicions were correct…"

"I've got good eyes. Look," the archer replied dryly, tucking away the memories. He looked down, pulling several folders out of the stack. "I'd like to talk to these five here, and I want to see Princese shoot on the range again once everyone leaves. Let's see if he does better without an audience."

"You're not in trouble, Specialist. He just wants you to shoot again," Master Sergeant Hughes explained quietly as he handed him a fresh clip.

Princese felt his hands grow sweaty. "Sarge, are you sure? There're other guys with higher scores."

"Just get down and run through the exercise again," the range master ordered, giving the civilian a side-long glance. "He came a long way to see you boys, so we might as well humor the man."

He nodded, taking his place again at the sandbags. Bracing his rifle, he took a deep breath. Unsure whether or not to miss this time, he concentrated on keeping his hands from shaking.

Was the stranger from CID, trying to re-open the investigation? Princese had been told by his CO that he had been cleared of any charges, but...had they changed their minds? Could they do that? The last thing he wanted was to have to re-tell the story again. Each recounting had driven a knife deeper into his heart.

Squeezing the trigger, he flinched as the shot went wide.

"Cease fire!" the rangemaster called.

There was no way they were going to want him to keep this up. Hopefully, they would just leave him alone. So far, it had worked with his squad mates; the less attention he drew to himself, the easier it would be to make a nice, calm exit and move on with his life. He let his head fall onto his forearm, letting out a quiet groan.

"Specialist, why don't you just drop the act and shoot the fucking target?" a quiet voice nearly growled into his ear. "I don't have time for bullshit."

Princese's head jerked up, barely missing the other man's knee. The civilian "observer" was squatting next to him, looking down with his sunglasses slightly lowered to reveal a calculating gaze. He hadn't even heard the man approach.

The man wore simple jeans, combat boots with loose laces, and a worn, black windbreaker. He sat like a coiled spring, ready to leap into action like a few "snake-eaters" they had met on base in Iraq. The observer's tone brooked no argument, as if he was used to people jumping to follow his orders. It was the man's eyes, though, that had the Specialist suddenly looking to him for guidance; they were the same ones Princese saw every morning in the mirror.

Civilian observer, my ass, Princese thought. "Sir?"

"Shoot. The. Target," the man enunciated. "Properly, this time."

The younger man nodded weakly. Bracing the rifle again, Princese focused on the target again. His eyes narrowed. Shoot properly? I'll show you proper.

Princese fired ten more times, each bullet forming a small group at the center. He smirked. The man snorted , turned, and walked away with Master Sergeant Hughes following behind.

As he turned to the range master with a quizzical look, the older man merely shook his head. "Fucking spooks."

Later that day, back at the Squadron HQ…

Princese entered the room, taking the seat that the civilian – Mr. Smith – had waved him towards. The older man leaned back with his chair, casually flipping through the service record. Every so often, the man's eyebrow arched, as if finding something of interest.

"So, Specialist Princese," Smith asked finally, "why'd you join up?"

"I wanted to do something good with myself," Princese replied carefully. "I, uh, wanted to serve my country."

The man looked at him skeptically, arching an eyebrow.

Princese shrugged. "And, I guess, get some college money. I didn't qualify for any scholarships out of high school, and I couldn't afford school."

"Do you like the Army?"

"It's good," the younger man replied quickly, his knee bouncing nervously. "It's great."

Smith snapped the folder shut and gave him a scathing look. He gently laid the folder down, and folded his hands in front of him. "Don't. Just don't. I don't give a shit about any rehearsed speeches you have or whether you're giving me the answer you think I want to hear."

"That is the answer –"

"I learned how to recognize a lie from one of the best in the business, and you, kid, are a shitty liar. I just want an honest answer. I'm not a psychologist, and this isn't a test. So try again."

Princese sank lower into his chair. He looked down at the floor for several minutes, trying to find the best explanation. "I did like it, until a few months ago. It was great. I thought I was doing something useful with my life. Like I was making a real difference, you know?"

Smith nodded slowly, keeping his expression neutral.

"I like it. The structure…the discipline," the Specialist continued. "I was kind of a screw-up in high school – I always seemed to pick the wrong thing to say, or piss off the wrong guy. If you couldn't tell from my name, I kinda got teased a little. Okay, a lot. But here, I dunno. I don't always get along with people, but I still kind of fit, in a way."

The older man leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "I typically don't like bringing up shit like what happened back in the sandbox. It's painful. I get that. But I find myself forced to ask you one question in regards to your mercy kill." He gave Princese a piercing look. "Why?"

Princese took a deep breath. "Because…he asked me to. Barber…he was my friend. He knew we weren't gonna make it out, and I think…he just wanted to give me a fighting chance. Barber was gonna die, and he wanted to go out with some dignity instead of wasting away, in pain. It would've been torture."

He looked down again, and then back up at Smith. "It just felt like the only choice. Not that the guys can see that."

"What if you could start fresh?"

"Sir?"

The man pulled a phone out, tapping on the screen. "Start fresh. Doing pretty much what you do now, but not for the Army."

"I'm not sure. I mean, I've still got about a month left."

"We're not exactly in a rush just yet." Smith set his phone down and looked back up at Princese. "Specialist, I represent an organization that investigates and intercepts threats from, let's just say unique sources."

"What, like Homeland Security?"

"We're a bit more global, but yes. Sort of. Now, some of our operatives are a bit unique, and downright scary, but those aren't what we're really looking for here. No group runs without guys like us on the front lines."

Princese chewed his lip slightly. The idea of being able to continue with his job without half of the baggage he had been carrying on his shoulders was tempting. "Can I have some time to think about it?"

The other man shrugged. "Sure. You've got a month 'til you muster out, but you probably want to think fast. This sort of deal doesn't usually come around twice. Provided you sign on, all that's left is a psych eval and the paperwork, of course."

"What, no field evaluation?"

"You think you boys just ran your asses into the ground for nothing?" Smith scoffed. "Your squad was just put through the equivalent of our entry-level Operations field test. You've got a good, strong unit – most of you would've passed the physical part with flying colors."

"And the not-so-physical part?"

The observer held up three fingers. "Three of you made the short list. Three."

"Who?" Princese asked out of curiosity.

"Classified."

The Specialist nodded quietly, noting the other man's irreverent tone as he said the word.

A week later…

"Yo Princese!" Sergeant Hoffman called. "The Captain wants to see you."

Princese nodded, making his way to the Company Commander's office, reporting in. Master Sergeant Hughes stood quietly next to Captain Pelton's desk. The CO motioned for him to shut the door.

"Specialist," the officer said, sliding a packet across his desk. "This came for you. Take a few minutes to look."

Princese looked down, spotting a large eagle symbol printed on the front of the packet. He frowned, trying to recall where he had seen it before. Opening the package, he pulled out a stack of brochures, along with a cover letter and a business card.

He picked up the business card, reading the name printed next to the logo. "Strategic Homeland – sir, is this for real?"

"That's what it looks like," the Captain said with a nod of affirmation. "SHIELD sent a recruiter out last week to look for some new talent. They've sent these packets to the soldiers they'd like to recruit. One of the three names picked out of over eighty soldiers was yours, Specialist."

"Mr. Smith," Princese commented dryly. He looked up at his CO in confusion. "But…why me?"

"I don't know, and frankly, it's not supposed to be my business." The officer leaned back. "Normally, we don't deal much with the likes of SHIELD. We're grunts. Infantry. We go off and fight the wars wherever Uncle Sam wants to send us. These guys, from what little I've been able to find out, they go all across the world as sort of self-appointed peacekeepers. Nobody knows who they report to in the long run, and frankly, soldier, that scares the shit out of me."

Captain Pelton picked up a pen, twirling it slightly as he gave the Specialist a stern look. "I don't like nudging people towards intelligence organizations. I don't trust them, but they're there for a reason, I suppose. Normally, I would warn any of my soldiers away from an offer like this since we don't know anything about them. I'd rather you take this bunch of brochures and burn the damn thing. But, in your case, it may actually be something to think about."

"Yes sir," Princese replied numbly, his gaze lowering to the floor.

"You're a good soldier, Princese. You've were put in a shitty situation, but you survived, and you didn't run away from the situation. You faced it with honor," Pelton said gently, laying his pen down. "I know that you may not believe it, but Barber would be proud, and don't you ever believe otherwise. I can't imagine having to go through something like what you did."

The CO nodded towards Hughes, who stepped forward. "I've worked with SHIELD before, back when I was in Military Intelligence. Some of their special operatives can be a bunch of psychotic sons of bitches at times, but they face down shit that will make your hair turn white. If they're recruiting you, it's for a good reason. I know the men have been giving you a hard time –"

"That's an understatement," the Specialist muttered under his breath.

"-But honestly, it may be a better fit for you," Hughes continued. "I know you want to serve your country. I'd rather see you re-up at the end of your enlistment, but honestly, son…you're not gonna be happy here. Not anymore. We'd rather see you go where you can make a difference rather than wallow in guilt and misery."

"Read the info they've sent," Pelton ordered gently. "Give yourself some time to think about it, and call the number if you've got questions."

"Yes sir."

Several months later…

Princese focused on the screen at the front of the lecture room and flipped the page on his issued notebook, adding to his extensive list of names and comments that already filled the pages. It wouldn't do to go to the next duty station unprepared. Agent Pitt had mentioned that this security briefing would be one of the most important in their early careers, and he intended to make sure he figured out why.

He glanced around at the other dozing students. Most had just completed a set of field exercises based on their areas of expertise, and a majority of the students had been up all night. Princese had decided it was more training; just because you were tired or sleepy didn't mean that an emergency mission wouldn't come up. One thing he had learned from his time in the Army was to never sleep through a briefing if possible.

Feeling his own head start to nod, he stood and moved quietly to the back of the room with his notebook, ignoring the confused looks of his peers. The lecturer simply gave him a nod of approval and proceeded with the briefing. Opening his notebook again, he looked back up at the screen and continued his notes.

"Next category is Operations. You boys and girls may want to pay special attention," Agent Pitt continued, clicking a button on his controller. "Especially those of you going into Ops. Most of you will be pulling security at some point, and many of our Special Field Operatives do not carry a visible badge. You see one of 'em heading your way at a fast pace, you pay fucking attention, follow their orders, or get out of their way – they're probably on the move for a reason, and it's not usually good."

Princese watched as several profiles were brought up on the screen, one by one. Agent Pitt ran through the senior handlers, including some of the more infamous agents – Coulson, Sitwell, Woo, Quartermain…each gained their own short summary in his notebook. It was when Pitt started going through the strike teams that things started to get more interesting, as most of the information about what they did was classified.

He tried to ignore the whispers, sighs and cat-calls as some of the more attractive agents came on screen.

"Keep it down, people. Next, we have Strike Team Delta," Pitt announced. "Details are very classified with these two. This is a two-person team, and currently one of the only ones Level Seven or above. Do not piss either of them off without a good reason, people – it will piss the other one off, and you will regret it. Be polite, and show some respect – they've seen and done too much shit to deserve otherwise."

Pitt clicked his remote, and the screen showed a beautiful woman in her twenties, with deep, auburn red hair which fell over her shoulders. There were several catcalls, and more appreciative whispering. Even Princese couldn't deny that she was hot.

"First up is Agent Romanoff, code name Black Widow. She's Russian, and will assist with polishing your conversational Russian skills if number one, you request it ahead of time in writing, and two, you ask nicely. Do not ask her out on a date, do not bother her with shitty pickup lines, and do not, I mean do not harass this woman in any way or you'll probably find yourself finding out the hard way just how stupid you were."

There were several snorts of disbelief, which Pitt rolled his eyes at as he finished the quick list of "how to not piss off Agent Romanoff so she won't twist you into a pretzel." The list was longer than Princese expected; he wrote each down, underlining them. Agent Pitt clicked to the next profile, bringing up a middle-aged man.

Princese froze, nearly dropping his pen as he recognized Mr. Smith.

"The other half of Strike Team Delta is Agent Barton, code-name Hawkeye," Pitt continued. "Ops agents, if this man says jump, you ask 'How High.' Agent Barton is one of the most senior field operatives in SHIELD, ladies and gentlemen. He reports directly and only to the Director and Agent Coulson. If you're on a mission with him, do not ignore any insights or orders, no matter how weird or crazy they seem. He's got the best eyes in SHIELD, so he probably saw something you didn't."

Pitt continued with several warnings, like he had with Agent Romanoff. Princese let out a sigh, letting his head fall back gently against the wall as the agent lectured. Why would one of SHIELD's top agents be pulling recruiting duty, and of all people, pick a screw-up like him? It just didn't make any sense.

"Those of you going to R and D, I'll give you a fair warning. He's got an adversarial relationship with the department, so take any equipment, armor or weaponry ideas to your supervisor, and they'll route it accordingly. He handles his own weaponry needs, so don't approach him trying to give your career a boost. That goes for anyone going to Medical. You'll have your own briefing on agent medical profiles when you report to your next duty station. Next up, we've got Strike Team Echo, led by Agent Hartwell – the big man himself."

Princese sighed as Agent Pitt rambled on. This organization was getting weirder and weirder by the minute.

SHIELD Headquarters, several weeks later…

Princese hoped he wasn't too early. He made his way to the assigned range, dodging several other agents who appeared to have been in a hurry. Opening the door to the training area, he looked around for the range master.

He spotted one agent standing with his back to the door. The agent stiffened and turned slightly, and nodded in greeting. The older man was dressed in black tactical pants, a black t-shirt and tactical vest, with combat boots.

It was the loose laces that gave Princese reason to pause. The only other person in the range was none other than Mr. Smith – er, Agent Barton. The younger agent looked around in confusion. "Sir? I was supposed to report here for training – is the Training Officer here yet?"

Barton beckoned him forward. "Sorry about the deception back during your Army days, but well…we try to be discreet. Let me introduce myself properly: my name is Agent Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye. Barton is fine, so's Agent Barton. I'll be your Training Officer for your Distance Support training."

Princese's eyes widened. He had been told by numerous agents about the veteran operative's shooting prowess; what he had done to Prescott the other week during the "Shell Game" alone was enough to make him a believer. Training with Barton or any of the higher level agents was considered a privilege.

He looked back at the door, waiting for any other trainees to appear. "Will anyone else be joining us, sir?"

Barton shook his head. "No, just you and me. Will that be a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Good." The older man pressed a control on the wall. A clunk from the direction of the door told Princese that the range had been locked down. "Don't worry about the locks. I don't like stupid interruptions when I'm teaching."

Princese nodded, approaching the bench. It held several cases, as well as a weapons rack which housed several rifles. Clips of various calibers sat on a shelf below the rack. He moved to the datapad that held the range records, signing in as he had been taught during training. SHIELD tracked pretty much everything, he had discovered.

"Let's get this party started." Barton leaned back against the counter top, giving him a serious look and indicating towards the rifles. "Pick one, and let's see if you can beat your previous qualification scores."

Barton tested him for two hours, ordering him to fire from various positions on the range. The younger agent finally understood why they had been the only two in the range; any additional agents there may have interfered with some of the firing positions he had been asked to try. His shoulders ached from the occasional recoil mishap after a more complicated maneuver.

"Cease fire," Barton called. "Secure your rifle."

Princese nodded, ejecting the clip and clicking on the safety before slinging the weapon over his shoulder. He approached the bench and set the rifle down on one of the stands to allow it to cool down before cleaning. Rubbing his shoulder with a wince, he turned to Barton for further instructions.

"Good shooting," the agent reported. "Looks like we've to got a ninety-two-point-three hit rate, but that's understandable as you're not using standard maneuvers and firing positions. It's pretty damn good by normal standards. By mine, you've got room for improvement. I'd like to see ninety-five by next month."

"Next month? So, this isn't a one-time thing?" Princese asked, looking at the older man in confusion. "Not that there's anything bad about it, sir, but –"

"It's only a one-time thing if you want it to be," Barton replied. He paused, giving Princese an almost hesitant look. If the younger agent didn't know better, he would think Barton almost looked disappointed. "If you'd rather have a different Training Officer for your specialized training…"

"It's fine, sir!" Princese replied quickly. He caught an almost imperceptible look of relief in the other man's eyes. Maybe they had more in common than he had first thought. "I just didn't think they assigned specialized training to new agents."

"They don't, but in this case they made an exception. I recommended the training since you were recruited to provide distance support. You're a sniper, kid. No sense putting all that good training to waste."

"Aren't we supposed to earn it first? There're other agents who have been here longer."

Barton snorted. "Yeah, and they receive training as needed. Every agent gets a specialized plan at some point. Yours just got a head start."

Several weeks later…

The older man turned back to the weapon rack, pulling another rifle off of the wall. He began checking the mechanisms in a practiced motion. "Tell me, Princese, how many of the special protocols did they go over with you back in training?"

"Several of them, sir." The former Specialist began mentally ticking numbers off, trying to work out which he would be asked about. "There's the NHC-One…"

Barton nodded as he listed off several others. "There's another one that comes up every now and then, almost as rare as NHC-One. Have they told you about the Code Tango Seven Protocol?"

Princese shook his head. "No sir. They apparently missed that one."

"Well," Barton continued, "Code Tango Seven is invoked when an agent who is Level Seven or above feels they're becoming a threat to SHIELD or the general public. That agent can designate a proxy. When the protocol is activated, the proxy will neutralize the threat."

"It's a self-termination protocol?" the younger agent said, blinking in surprise. "SHIELD actually has those?"

"Yep."

Barton placed the weapon gently on the bench top, his hands tightening on the stock as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You probably have heard some rumors by now about the Loki thing. Hell – all of SHIELD knows about it."

Princese nodded. "I also know that all the guys I've heard talk about it say it wasn't your fault, sir." He now understood the man's earlier reactions, as well as the familiar look of guilt in his eyes. The junior agent began to pace slowly, chewing a thumbnail nervously. "A lot of the guys…they'll follow you to hell and back if you asked."

"Yeah. They might."

What does that have to do with the Code Tango Seven protocol?" Princese asked, although he had a sick feeling in his gut. From everything he'd heard, Barton was methodical - he didn't do anything without having a purpose behind it.

"I'm asking you to be my designated proxy."

"Why me?" he asked, watching the grim look on the older agent's face. "I…I'm a junior agent, sir. This is… what you're asking me to do is insane!"

Barton stared at him calmly before answering. "Don't play dumb with me, kid. Look, I know it's a shitty thing to ask, but the thing of it is… nobody else'll do it. I'm dead serious. At least, nobody that's skilled enough to do the job."

"And you think I can? Uh, do the job, sir?"

The archer grimaced. "It's not just that you can, soldier. It's that you will. I know your record- about what you did for your squad mate. Mercy kills are no joke, and I know it hurts having to live with it afterwards."

"So how can you ask me to do it again? How do you know it'll ever be needed?" Princese asked angrily, whirling back from the direction he had been pacing anxiously. "I don't even know why you want this, sir."

"Compromised," Hawkeye said quietly, looking down at his feet. "It's such a clean word for an ugly situation. The last time I was compromised, I attacked and nearly destroyed the Helicarrier. Today, they still won't tell me how many deaths I'm responsible for; not that I haven't already found out using my own personal methods. I have done some truly rotten things when I've been compromised, kid - I can't let it happen again."

Barton looked up, his gaze growing intense as he repeated himself. "I can't let it happen again. I won't."

"So what does that have to do with me?" the younger sniper asked.

"It has everything to do with you," Barton scoffed. "Coulson, Romanoff… even Fury. All of them, I can't count on to take the shot without hesitation. They hide it well, but they care too much. If they hesitate for too long, it might be too late."

"But sir…"

"There's a reason I asked you, Princese." Barton straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm going to make it my personal goal to make sure you've got enough skills to do it. And I know that when the time comes where you have to choose whether or not to take the shot, you'll do the right thing. Now, let's move on to the M21 Sniper Weapon System rifle - one of my personal favorites."

Later that afternoon…

Clint caught up with the Deputy Director as she headed for the Quinjet that would take her back to the Helicarrier after her meeting with Fury. "Agent Hill – can I have a word?"

She stopped, turning around and giving him a hard look. "Can I help you, Agent Barton?"

"Yeah," he replied, guiding her to one of the secure conference rooms. "I just need a minute."

"I have a jet waiting," she replied with an annoyed tone. "Make this quick."

He handed her the signed form he had brought with him. She looked down at the document, which sported a blank signature line below her printed name. The foot she had been quietly tapping paused.

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him. "Barton, is this real?"

Clint nodded. She held his gaze for a minute, watching for any sign that this was a prank or a way to distract her from some nefarious activity. Hill had never trusted him, thinking him too much of a loose cannon after he defied the kill order on Natasha. It was still worth it.

"You're not joking," she replied, her voice lowering. "You do know what this means, right? If you enable this protocol at any time, we are legally obligated to neutralize you. This is not something to take lightly!"

"I know perfectly well what it means. I'm not taking it lightly, and no – I'm not fucking joking about this, Hill." He looked back at her with a resolute expression. "I know everyone keeps saying they don't blame me for what went down with the carrier, but…I've done the math. Loki was running the show, but it was my plan that caused the damage. My bow. My fucking arrows."

"Barton…have you talked to your counselor about this?" she asked, her expression changing to one of sympathy. "Does Fury know what you're planning? This is an extreme measure."

"No, I haven't talked to Mitch about it. He can't know. Nobody else can know about this."

Hill frowned. "You do know this is basically assisted suicide. I should be reporting you to Psych for this – you're not a current threat to anyone here, unless you count my sanity."

"Psych. Right. They're not the ones who have to see this shit over and over again at night when they sleep," Clint told her, looking at her with haunted eyes. "I can't let it happen again. I know how much damage I did. I can't…I need this, Hill. I need to know that there'll be a measure in place if I ever get compromised again."

"Why not have Coulson act as your authenticator?"

"Because as much as I know you hate me, I trust you to make the right choice if it comes down to it. Coulson…he's too soft. Anyone else high enough level to enforce it would take too much time to do so."

"I'm not sure whether I've been insulted or complimented," Hill replied dryly. She pulled a pen out of a pocket, hesitating slightly above the signature line. "There's no going back once I sign this, Barton. Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

The Deputy Director shook her head in resignation and signed the form. "It's your funeral. Literally." She tucked the form away in her laptop case. "Done. I'll file it for you on the Helicarrier while the Director's at the conference, unless you'd rather have him find out about it. He'll have you dragged off to the nearest inpatient ward if he does – for your own good of course."

"Thanks."

"You can thank me by not enacting the protocol unless the damn world is ending. And Barton," she added. He looked up. "We just…tend to disagree on how to do things. I don't hate you."

Clint chuckled quietly as she left. The archer sighed, pulling out the other forms he had to update as well – his medical proxy, Will, and several others that HR had been hounding him about. He had put it off long enough.